Twelve
by Dusked
Summary: Due to complications concerning his parents, Draco has no other choice but to live under The Burrow's roof. Whilst there, he realises that time as little as twelve months can change one's life completely, in the best ways possible. One-shot, AU-EWE. Draco x Hermione, Romance/Hurt-Comfort.


_I know it's been a while since I've uploaded anything, and now that I'm writing more frequently, it's always good to start with a good 'ol Dramione fic. (Where there will be many more to come) Plus, I'm currently starting on Dramione one-shots 2 and 3.._

_Also, a big thank you to my beta: reader93 - she was a great help!_

_Enjoy. _

_._

* * *

**_Twelve_**

* * *

He'd never given much thought to whom he'd spend his life with.

After all, he was who he was_._ Thinking about a future with someone else just wasn't on those cards.

He wasn't sure how long he'd have to wait for that unexpected person to rip those cards up and throw them away; he didn't believe it would be all that possible, really.

But it was, and she was there.

…

It was the same routine, but done at a different place.

He'd get up in the mornings, shower and dress, only to return to his bed to stare blankly at the perished ceiling.

Today – like the previous days since he arrived at The Burrow – he felt uncomfortable. Out of place.

It had only been a few days since he was offered a place to stay, after his father had been killed in the battle, and his mother was currently held in St. Mungo's, suffering with a mental disorder as a result of that sudden death. Least of all, he was hardly pleased to be under the same roof as the Weasley's.

It had all been Potter's doing. After the war, they had agreed to a truce – though not a friendship, but merely a tolerance of each other – he did have a small amount of gratitude for Potter, but was confused as to why he'd been shown such kindness. He guessed it was pity.

But other than that one time, they did not speak or interact. He didn't with anybody. They'd ignore him, though partly, it was his own choice to remove himself from the others.

It was normal for him to isolate himself forlornly in his room, while everyone would unite downstairs as a _perfect _family.

He remained that way throughout the rest of January.

…

He had expected this.

What he hadn't anticipated was the amount of anger he felt.

After receiving a letter concerning his father's will, and had read the contents, he had stormed outside on a cold February day – as it was the smartest thing to do for the safety of others – and had paced the garden until all anger had been distinguished.

He didn't stop until he was calm. Not even when his lungs were burning, his heart was thumping painfully in his chest, or when the blood hammered against his ears. There was nothing that would allow him to halt his stride other than the patient and well-earned wash of relaxation.

Relaxation didn't seem promising today as he clutched the letter in his cramped hands. Years ago, he might have been happy to receive such news, but now he couldn't be more disgusted or insulted.

After the third time of circling the garden, he found a much easier way to relieve his anger: setting fire to things. Though it was clarified as vandalism, there wasn't much damage done as it he only did it on a few dying leaves, which would grow back within the week.

He heard the padding of another person's footsteps behind him. He didn't bother turning around. "There are other ways of reducing stress instead of ruining the Weasley's property, Malfoy."

He tensed his jaw tightly until it clicked. _Her. _"I'm not _stressed._"

The sound of her aggravated sigh added to his climbing anger. "Whatever you're doing it for, you need to stop. You can do it in your own home, but not somebody else's. They didn't take you in for you to cause damage on their home."

"Just bugger off, Granger," he growled, though he dropped his arm to his side, ceasing the flames.

He still sensed her presence. "What's the letter?"

Baring his teeth, he peered over his shoulder at her, enough to see her looking at him with concern. "It's none of your business," he spat, nostrils flaring.

"Okay," she replied quietly, and he blinked in surprise that she hadn't retorted or had continued to pester him. "Dinner's on the table."

He shrugged. "Whatever."

She sighed and he heard her retreating footsteps. Once alone, he pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head in defeat. If it was always going to be this difficult, he didn't know if he could last much longer.

He didn't attend dinner that night, either.

…

It wasn't until March that he had gathered up enough courage to finally attempt a sit down meal with the rest of them. Usually he would have sought leftovers after they'd finished and stuff it in his pockets; rushing back upstairs to devour it like some sort of gremlin.

He'd mostly decided to do this because Mrs. Weasley was too kind and cooked him a meal every day and night, even continuing to do so when he didn't eat it at all. He needed to at least have some decency to show he appreciated it, because he _did_, secretly.

Once past the first staircase, he began to hear the soft murmurs of voices and the echoes of laughs. It was weird because as soon as he had heard their joy as a family, he felt a painful ache in his chest.

He didn't belong here, he realized. He didn't fit in. He was far too different from them. He was an outcast. An outsider.

Turning around, he climbed heavily back up the stairs to his room, as if he hadn't even tried.

…

_Knock Knock._

Draco groaned and lifted the pillow that was over his face. "What?"

"There's no need to be so snappy," the muffled voice replied. Ugh. _Her. Again. _"Can I come in?"

"No," came his short response.

She ignored his rejection and opened the door. In her hands was a plate full of food and something that looked like a box held under her armpit. He slipped the pillow behind his head and eyed her. "Usually, Granger, when someone says no, it's then the other person's job to _piss off._"

"Yes, well, I'm not that person, am I?"

He muttered a curse, her being there was beginning to grate painfully on him like sandpaper on skin. "What do you want?"

She sat down on the end of his bed, despite his efforts to nudge her away with his foot. She held out the plate to him. "Here," she offered.

"I'm not hungry," he said through gritted teeth, pushing the plate away. She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. "Don't even start with the mothering, Granger, I already get enough of that."

She sighed, not in the mood to start a bickering match. Pulling the box out from under her arm, she placed it on the bed in front of him. "At least eat this."

"What is it?" he asked while eyeing the object warily.

The box clacked as she shook it. "It's a chocolate Easter egg."

"Easter?"

"Yeah, it's a Muggle holiday we celebrate in April."

"With eggs?"

"_Yes._"

He scoffed. "I'd rather not be involved in your ridiculous festivities."

She huffed the hair away from her eyes and arched an eyebrow. "It's chocolate, Malfoy, it's not going to kill you. There's no poison or jinx."

"If it kills me or not, I'm still not eating it."

"Fine, be that way," she said sadly. "but if you change your mind, I'll leave it here." He watched as she pushed it closer to him, offered him a rueful smile and headed for the door.

As her hand closer around the handle, Draco found himself stopping her. "Granger?"

Holding her step, she glanced over her shoulder and gave him a trace of a smile. "Yes?"

He didn't know why he did it, but he had the slight suspicion that he wanted to, so quietly, barely above a whisper, he muttered, "Thanks."

…

The wood beneath his feet creaked with every step he took.

He noted the small beads of perspiration beginning to form on his forehead, his breaths being drawn out shallow, and a painful clench continuing to harass his gut.

He couldn't really understand why he'd be this nervous over finally attempting to eat dinner with the rest of the house again after a month of talking himself into it. He'd managed to make it past the many rickety staircases without fault, but now stood outside the kitchen, it was starting to affect him.

It was a fairly simple thing to do, opening a door: the averaged aged toddler would accomplish the task with ease in a matter of seconds. For Draco, it didn't seem that straightforward.

He didn't know how much timed passed as he over-thought and over-analyzed the situation he was stuck in. His hand twitched in anticipation, bordering on strained tension.

Mentally kicking himself to grow a pair, he reached forward to grasp the handle, slowly turning it and pushing it with difficulty as if it was made of stone. _Come on, Draco, be a man._

It was as predicated. As soon as the door opened wide, all heads around the kitchen table had snapped up. All chatter had ceased, and even some cutlery had clattered against the tabletop at Draco's unexpected entrance.

It couldn't have felt any worse. He felt his cheeks warm with embarrassment, his heart raced, and a weird sense of enclosure as all eyes boxed him in on the spot and left scorching holes. He made the turn to leave shamefully.

"Malfoy," that sweet voice called out before he made it past the threshold. He turned back around to find her seated in the center. "I saved a seat for you."

Indeed she had. The seat next to her was empty and she pulled it out with a smile as a way to tempt him, perhaps. It did.

It was strange, really. Once he had seen how casual she was towards him, and treated him as an equal, ignoring all the outraged and shocked looks – only focusing on Draco – he felt the need to do the same.

It wasn't the first time she'd been friendly to him. Over the past few weeks she continued to chitchat with him, regardless of the ways of his past. Of course, he returned it with snide remarks, or sarcastic comments, or was just plain rude, but still, she _tried. _And somewhere in a part of him, he wanted her to _keep _trying, because he found that maybe if she did – he would, too.

Eyes held with her the entire time, he squeezed past the narrow gaps between chairs and plunked himself down in the offered seat. He then found a plate of food suddenly appearing in front of him, and he caught Mrs. Weasley with her wand pointed at his place, an unsure, yet respectful smile on her face. He returned it with a curt nod.

He would've started to greedily eat the feast in front of him, but he couldn't bring himself to do so with the beady little eyes of everyone drilled into his skull. It appeared Hermione had noticed too, and that the snap of her neck towards them and the tight line of her lips showed it did not please her, at all. "Do you _mind?_"

"What?" The Weasel grunted. He was still glaring at Draco, but he managed to simultaneously chow down on all the food he could handle.

"What do you mean _what?_" she addressed them all hotly. "There's no need for all of you to gawk at him like that. He's been here for months! He hasn't just arrived! So stop being so _bloody _rude and leave him be!"

_That was a first. _He thought as he stared at her with his mouth agape, and he was seemingly the only one as everyone else had bowed his or her head at her sudden outburst of defense. "You didn't have to that," he whispered. He was slightly annoyed that he was, in a way, treated like a child, but he was also relieved that they'd left him alone.

"I know I didn't have to," she nodded, returning to her food. "but I wanted to."

Sitting next to Granger for dinner was a regular occurrence from that day on.

…

He never did enjoy any of his birthdays, and this year's didn't begin with any promises it had changed.

It had never been celebrated in his household in all previous years. No presents, no parties. Instead, he stayed in the cold confinements of his bedroom in the Manor. The only thing he found remotely good about today was it wasn't spent with his parents.

It was seven in the morning and he found himself alone underneath an oak tree outside, as it was the only place to get peace away from the vibrations of snores that reverberated around the house.

He wouldn't be at all surprised if none of the other even knew it was his birthday. Even if they did, he was pretty certain they wouldn't wish it a happy one. He didn't care. He was used to it. The only person who used to utter the words was usually his mother, but even then it wasn't heartfelt or meaningful, rather more of the necessity of it.

Tipping his head back and resting it on the tree, he relaxed, listening intently to the soft breeze rustling the leaves, and the clear smell of air as he inhaled deeply. _Bliss._

He'd been drifting into sleep when the crunching of footsteps roused him. Cracking an eye open, he spotted Granger approaching him. He suppressed a groan. As much as he now liked having her around after talking more frequently, today wasn't the time.

"Good morning," she said cheerfully, disgustingly happy at this early in the day.

"Morning," he mumbled back, grabbing a leaf and tearing it up tiredly. "Why are you up so early?"

"Why are _you _up so early?" she countered. He could sense the smile in her voice.

_Typical Granger. _"I couldn't sleep." It was partly the truth. He really couldn't sleep, but that was only because he was dreading today, for it's negatives _and _it's positives. "What about you?"

"Oh, well, I like coming out here for the fresh air, peace and quiet. It's the only bit of time I get any."

She reclined back and put her heads behind her head, sighing contently. He couldn't help but shake his head to himself. How could a girl who went through a war, oblivated her parents and had been tortured, act as though she had never been affected?

He was tempted to ask what her secret was, but then again, she could be bottling it up, hiding it away so she wouldn't get people questioning her. Secretly, she could still be suffering in aftermath. If she was, he knew exactly how she felt. Having to plaster a face on, put on a mask of forgery. He hated being interrogated by the public, newspapers. He hated being reminded of how he had been involved. Every time he wanted to be swallowed up by the ground. But of course, life isn't that generous.

Deciding against it, he closed his eyes again, the conversation apparently over, and he let his mind drift. Again, as he was about to doze off, into the hazy cloud of unconsciousness, her voice sliced through that state.

"Oh, and Malfoy?"

"Mm?"

"Happy Birthday."

Despite himself, a small smile tugged the corner of his mouth. She turned out to be the only person who had wished him a happy birthday that day.

…

July came quickly. Too quickly. Before Draco knew it, the perfect Potter's birthday was staring him in the face, and it was evident the celebrations were already underway.

He cringed at the singing of "Happy Birthday"; it was hardly a melody, more like swinging a bag of cats at a brick wall. But there was that one voice that he could decipher from the others, the soft notes and gentle waves of her tone was one he could listen to all night.

Unfortunately, the music drew to a close and was replaced by the round of applause that he guessed was signaling the blowing of candles. He was glad he wasn't there, playing silly little games and eating stupid cake, he was superbly fine –

_Knock. Knock. _The door opened. She walked in and said timidly, "Hi."

"Hi."

"How are you?" she asked, as though she was some therapist attending to a patient.

"Fine," he replied shortly. He noticed it was quite rude, so added more gently, "You?"

"I'm good…can I come in?"

He shrugged. "You're already in, but it wouldn't make a difference if I said no," he said. "So, having a gathering for Potter, then?"

She sat down on the bed; gazing around the room as if it was the first time she'd seen it. She looked up and her lips curled into a smile. "Yeah. That's the reason I came up here – to see if you wanted to join us."

Scoffing, he shook his head. "No thanks. It's hard enough to sit down to half hour dinner, I don't think I'd be able to survive a whole party."

"Are you sure?"

"Very."

The weight of silence set in after that. Before Draco had the chance to stop them, the words slipped from his mouth. "It was my father's will."

She looked up, a crease crinkling her forehead. "Huh?"

He exhaled, his lungs releasing the whoosh of air. "The letter that you saw me holding months ago, in the garden, it was my father's will."

"Oh."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Yeah."

Her features softened and she gave him an apologetic look. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

Shrugging, he fiddled with a piece of fluff on his bed sheets. "I don't know. It was partly because I didn't want anyone to know, but I guess it was also because I didn't think anyone would give a crap if I'd told them. I mean, who would?"

"I would," she replied softly. "I do."

"I don't know why you do, because even I don't."

"Y-you don't care that your father died or that he put you in his will?"

"Both," he growled, his lips a silent snarl. "Why should I care? Why should I care after the way he treated me? What he forced me into? You know what he did, everyone does. And having him give me all his life savings is an insult. I don't want his money. I want independence. I want a _life._"

"You can still have that, Malfoy."

He sneered, flopping back onto the bed and closing his eyes. Taking several deep breaths, he eased his anger down. The last thing he wanted was to lash out and lose control. "Me? Independence? I couldn't get that even if I used my father's money."

"Of course you can. All you need is a little…push to get you started. First maybe look into a new property."

Despite his dampened mood, he smirked. "Are the Weasley's planning to kick me out so soon?"

"No," she sighed. "but you know that you can't stay here forever, and I'm sure you want to move on with your life. Right? So, I could help you search for a new home if you want."

He was still coming to terms with Granger sticking up for him, but now gladly offering him help? Was she feeling all right? "You'd do that?"

She smiled. "Sure."

Maybe there was hope for him after all.

…

He sat in his room, alone again, just like he had for the past week, shutting himself off from everybody. From Granger.

She'd knocked on his door everyday, asking if he was okay, or if he'd be joining them for dinner. She never gave up and continued to visit, like the bloody Gryffindor she was.

She didn't know why he kept himself locked inside his room. No one did, except for himself and the person who had written the letter that was gripped between white-knuckled hands.

Only he knew his mother was dead. Only he knew that somehow through her mad-driven mind she had managed to clear it for mere seconds to commit suicide, even in the busy, safe building of the hospital.

There was no feeling. He wasn't even sure if he even cared, maybe more than he did his father, but not by much. Perhaps one day he'd realize that he did care more than he thought, but right now there were no traces of it.

He wasn't glad about it. He wasn't that spiteful. But he wasn't one of these people who'd cry for days and bask over memories, because there wasn't anything to go by. He had no childhood to remember.

A knock at the door stopped him from re-reading the letter for the umpteenth time. "Malfoy?"

He remained silent.

He heard the frustrated sigh. "Look, Malfoy, I know something's wrong! You haven't left your room for seven days! Come on! Open the door, I only want to talk!"

"Go away," he growled. "Leave me alone."

She huffed loudly. "No! Either you come out, or I come in, which one is it going to be?" He didn't respond.

"Fine!" He heard scuffling, followed by a whisper and a click of the door lock. The door opened and she stormed in. "Right. You better tell me why you haven't been turning up for dinner because Mrs. Weasley is getting concerned, and wasting more food because of you. I swear to Merlin, Malfoy, if you're just doing this out of spite, or for amusement then so help me –"

The piece of parchment he thrust in her face stopped her. With a snatch of her hand, she took the paper and begun to read. Her face faltered as the words sunk in.

"Are you happy now?" he hissed. "Happy that you now know? Got your way?"

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry –"

"Don't start with the pity, Granger, I don't want it."

"W-what? Don't you care about this either?" she asked, outraged. "Do you have no feeling at all?"

"Not much."

"But, your mother –"

"My mother," he cut her off with a menacing hiss. "was a _bitch_."

Granger looked hurt. "H-how can you say that?"

"Because I just _can_! She didn't see me as her son! All she saw was a younger replica of my father when she looked at me! Do you want to know what she did when I first visited her in hospital?"

"I –"

"She _screamed _and _punched _me, Granger! She said she _hated _me, _loathed_ me, didn't want to come anywhere near me! She was petrified of her own _son _just because she thought of me as another person," She must have seen the raw pain in his eyes, for she gasped. "Do you know how that feels? No, of course you don't. Your parents still loved you even after they found out you'd obliviated them! Me? I did nothing like that! I was hated because I was unfortunate enough to have inherited a few traits from my father!"

Her tongue flicked out to wet her dry lips. "I'm – I'm sorry, Malfoy, I didn't know it was like that."

"You're not _sorry_," he spat harshly. "no one is. No one's given a toss about what happens in my _fucked _up family!" The sudden roar of pure, uncontrolled rage that was forced out felt like a rubber band, snapping and straining the walls of his throat as he swung a trembling fist against the wall, the flimsy panels crunching against his knuckles before crumbling, the grains of dust feathering the floor.

He looked down at the mess he had caused. He flexed his hand, the majority red and achingly throbbing, but there hadn't been enough strength behind his punch to draw blood or cause any scarring. "Did that make you feel any better?" he heard her ask behind him. He was taken aback at how she hadn't even flinched at his moment of danger. Hadn't even batted an eyelid.

Nodding a silent yes, he watched as she stepped closer to him. "It's obviously this is a sensitive subject for you, but have you never thought of the possibility that your mother could have been confused? Maybe her mind was planting images and fooling her because of her mental disorder."

Of course she knew about his mother being ill, everyone did. It had been spread over all the papers a day after she'd been institutionalized. He clenched his jaw and took deep breaths, attempting to stem the fresh surges of anger. "Maybe. But it hardly matters now, does it?"

They sat in silence for a moment, and she spoke again, saying something he'd never thought she'd say. "You're nothing like him, you know. You never were. I mean, you may have been quite mean, prejudiced, and was disrespectful over blood-status, but that was only because Lucius misguided you. Now that the war is over, and there's nothing holding you down, you're changing."

_Fuck, _she was making it incredibly difficult for him to stay mad. From the sound of her calm and controlled voice was plenty for his mood to lighten enough to stop him trashing anymore of the room.

He didn't have anything to respond with. His voice failed him and he remained speechless. The silence elapsed again, but it was natural, comfortable, even. A warm hand then enveloped his, lacing their fingers together. He was sure that it was a moment that would latch onto his memory with sharp detail; the well defined curls of her fingers and soft textured skin held in his much more rough and battered one. Two complete different hands in a perfect fit.

That gesture, the first touch in months, reminded him of being hit by the impact of a bludger; anyone could describe it as unprepared that such a small object could possess such force and damage, painfully knocking the breath from your lungs, even being on the verge of blacking out. It was exactly how he was feeling right now.

The only difference was that this time it was accompanied with building warmth that started from his fingertips, and travelled around until it reached every corner and part of his body.

He kept hold of it, not wanting to let go, clutching onto this unfamiliar feeling. He hung onto it. He _remembered _it.

For the rest of the night, the two stayed in his room. By the time the celebrations had finished downstairs, they had fell asleep side-by-side, their hands remaining entwined.

…

Since that night, things had changed. On Draco's part, mostly.

Whenever in her presence, or if he spoke to her, a weird fluttering would roll around in his gut, his hands would twitch nervously, and at times he would find himself smiling at just the thought of her.

He was nervous at what this all meant, but at the same time quite anticipated at what it would bring.

Which was why he was sitting at his desk, fiddling with the piece of carved wood that he had made into a cat key ring with the words 'Happy Birthday' neatly chipped into its tail. It wasn't much. He didn't think she'd make much of it, but it was an attempt at showing affection.

Did he want to face her and give it in person? Probably not. Was it the best thing to do, though? Yes, but he'd rather find another way then risking a heart attack.

Reluctantly scarping the chair back and pushing to his feet, he left the room and headed towards hers. It wasn't long before he was outside her door, his heart lodged in his throat and his hands shaking uncontrollably.

He checked his watch. 11.05pm. She was likely to be asleep right now, so his decision on how he'd give it to her was made, and that would be the easy option of slipping it under the gap in her door, given its size and lack of quality. He was caught between letting her know it was him, or if it should be kept anonymous.

He chose anonymous.

…

"What about this one?"

Draco leant forward to get a closer look at the newspaper advertising properties. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "A one bedroom flat? Please, Granger, I'd like to have something that doesn't display me as someone who can't afford their own toilet paper."

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Come on, Malfoy, you're going to have to pick something sooner or later, not everything is about size or quality. Anything would do you to start off, I'm sure you'll be able to buy yourself a mansion soon enough."

"No, I don't want a mansion. A normal sized house will suffice."

"I've shown you about a dozen of those!"

He smirked. "Yes, well, obviously they don't suite my taste."

"What is your taste? You're not really giving me anything to base this on."

He suddenly turned serious. "It's not the fact of style or taste." _It's the fact of leaving you, I've realized. _"but more…I don't know – I wouldn't have any company," he sighed, running a hand through his mussed hair. "and no, I haven't fallen in love with the Weasley clan before you ask, it's that it would feel weird without that sense of other people living around you."

"Oh, Malfoy…" she murmured. "I know I said before that you can't stay he forever, but if you want, I could persuade Mrs. Weasley if you could stay a little longer –"

"No, no, don't do that. It would make it worse if I was given more time to get attached." _I'm already attached enough._

"Okay," she gave him a warm smile. "Shall we keep looking then?"

He closed the paper and placed it in the desk draw. "I think that's enough for one night."

"Hm, okay," she said, a strange mischievous glint forming in her eyes. "Can I ask you something?"

Draco grew nervous quickly. "Er, sure?"

"Well, I want to know who gave me this present last month for my birthday. You see, it had no name attached and so I don't know who it was from, do you think you'd know?"

He swallowed thickly. "What was it?"

"A hand-made key ring of a wooden cat. It was quite beautiful."

His heart thudded in his chest. _She thought it was beautiful. _He kept his eyes trained on hers, determined to not give it away. "I'm not sure."

"Really? Because everyone gave me their gifts in person, and when I asked around, they claimed they knew nothing of it."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, so do you think you know who gave it to me?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm afraid I can't say I do."

She got up from the chair. "That's a shame, I was really hoping to find out who it was. Do you think you could inform me if you find out?"

"Sure."

Opening the door, the stepped out of it, ready to leave. "Draco?"

He flinched slightly at the sound of his first name. His voice came out strangely raspy. "Yeah?"

"Thank you." With that, she shut the door behind her, leaving him to clutch onto his chest as he tried to slow his heart rate down.

…

_BANG._

"Ugh. What is so great about this? Why are we here?" Draco shouted as another firework exploded loudly in the air, the eruptions of red, greens and blues splashing over the navy sky, ending with a soft crackle and sprinkle of lit timbers.

She slapped him playfully on the arm. "Because, it's another tradition that I celebrate, and I insisted that it happen."

He unblocked his ear. "How is being blinded by light and getting your eardrum blown out considered a _tradition?_ Who is this… Guy _Splawks? _Was it?_ Mawks?_"

"Fawkes," She corrected with a laugh and he shivered at the sound. "Look for a book about him. And about the noise, you'll block it out in a minute. All you have to do is watch."

While she turned around and became engrossed in the display above her, Draco's mind wandered to other things. Things he had tried to avoid until now.

After a months worth of searching, they'd been able to find a home for him. In London. It was a way to restart his life, to get away from everything else. To start anew. It was a nice house, perfect even. The only problem was that he had to leave. He had to leave _her. _In a month he would be gone.

He'd grown so close to her in only a short course of time, something he had never done in the past. It was definite he liked her more than a friend, but was it on the bounds of love?

Looking back down at her, he took in everything, from the flicks of her eyelashes to the soft pillows of her lips. She was beautiful, he admitted, perhaps the most he had laid eyes on. She wasn't one of these fakes or trashy slags he had dated, or rather – bedded and threw away back in Hogwarts, she was natural and open to who she was, and he admired her for that.

He could pinpoint everything he loved about her. The way she scrunched her nose up when she didn't agree with something, the quiet snort when she laughed too much, or when she twirled a curl around her finger when she was nervous. They were all perfections.

Soon, he would never get to see those things ever again. No doubt he'd lose contact, as it was hardly possible for her to like him back, let alone miss him once he was gone. Again, he'd end up alone like the way he was born to be.

Leaving wasn't that good of an option, but it was the _only _option.

Her voice yanked him back from his thoughts. "Don't you just love them?" she asked.

His eyes remained on her as he was suddenly hit with a stunned realization. He knew then what he had to say, the words easily rolling from his tongue. "Yes," he replied quietly, so quiet he wondered if she even heard him. "I do."

…

It was the end.

He stood under his favorite tree, watching the shredding's of snow litter down from the sky, after all, it was Christmas night. Draco didn't see any reason in spending it with the others. He'd eaten dinner with them as usual, but then had vacated outside to be alone as he was on the verge of losing it right in front of them because he was leaving the next day.

The last day with her before she would be erased from his life.

"What are you standing outside here in the cold for? Do you want to catch a cold?"

_If that would get me to stay longer, then yes. _"Oh, you know, it was a nice night so I thought I'd take a walk," he said lamely, but his façade didn't crumble, thankfully.

She nodded and crossed her arms, gathering warmth, and stood next to him. "So, are you excited about tomorrow?"

He shrugged. "I guess."

"You don't sound it."

"Truth be told, it's because I'm not."

She frowned. "Why? Is it because you don't like the house? Or if it's about leaving, I can still ask Molly –"

"It's not because I have to leave the _house._"

"What is it, then?"

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "It's because I have to leave _you,_" he huffed a mirthless laugh, kicking a pile of snow for emphasis. "only now I seemed to realize. And I understand if you think I'm crazy, or you want to run, because I don't expect you to say or do anything. But I had to tell you, or I would've regretted it the moment I left. So yeah, I'll just –"

One minute he had been busy expressing himself, and the next he was cut off when Hermione's lips crashed onto his. He froze for a moment, stunned at the sudden move. At first he wondered if he should have pushed her off, but he didn't want to, of course he didn't. He knew somewhere deep in the back of his mind he had wanted to do this for a while, and so he lost himself in her warm and inviting lips that he'd waited so long to touch.

When he responded with equal fervor, one of his hands palmed her waist; the other delving into her hair, tangling in the frosted, thick curls. She clutched at his forearms as if it was the only support she could grasp to prevent collapsing as his tongue pressed through the seam of her lips, and she tentatively opened to him, allowing him and her to explore each other.

It fogged all coherent thought when he was able to taste her, as her tongue entered his mouth and the kiss deepened; she vaguely tasted of cherries and coffee and something sweet and tempting that defined _her. _This, combined with the overwhelming smell of vanilla perfume and fresh air, and the natural scent made it that much harder to concentrate.

He was somewhat aware of the feelings around him. The scratching of bark rubbing against his back as he was pushed roughly against the tree, the cold flakes of winter snow melting on their heated skin, the rapid pulse in her neck as his hand curled around it gently, and she arched against him, relishing in everything he gave her.

After a few moments, he begun to slow the kiss, gently easing her away until they both broke apart with contented sigh. He kept his forehead rested against hers, just to keep that small, rare piece of contact. "Care to explain what that was about?"

She breathed a laugh, her hands sliding down to grasp his. "Isn't it obvious?"

"I have my guesses, but I have an uncomfortable feeling they could be wrong."

"If that kiss wasn't enough to confirm your guesses, then this one will have to," she whispered before leaving in again, latching her lips onto his. It was shorter than the first, but just as powerful.

He swallowed when they parted. "How long?"

"Quite a while, really."

A dent surfaced in his brow. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He felt her run her thumb over his knuckles. "I guess I was scared. Scared that you didn't feel the same way towards me, as you know, you are _Draco Malfoy._"

He felt the slight twinge of hurt but it went as soon as it had come. "I know people would think that. But because my family wasn't very good at feelings, doesn't mean I'm not."

"I know, you've already proved that to me."

He nodded slowly and squeezed her hands. "So…what do we do now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well," he muttered sadly. "I still have to leave, don't I?"

To his surprise, she started to laugh, a full fit of giggles. He frowned, and felt the stab of annoyance. "What's so bloody funny?"

"For someone like you, you really can be quite dim sometimes."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, snatching his hands away and his eyes hardened.

Rolling her eyes, she leant up and pecked his lips, effectively softening him. "It's just…you believe that because you're leaving, we're never going to see each other again."

"Well, yeah… isn't that right?"

"No, you're completely wrong," she sighed when he apparently still didn't understand. "Draco, it doesn't matter that you're moving into another place. It's not far from here, you know, and there are such things as the floo network and apparition. You didn't believe I'd let you get away that easily, did you?" She reached up and brushed his fringe away from his eyes. "Besides, it may have taken us twelve months to get to this point, but there'll always be plenty more."

He smiled. She was right, as always. He'd just been too obtuse to think of it that way, and he was eternally grateful she had informed him before he had left not knowing.

Twelve months it had taken. Twelve months for those cards, which showed whom he'd spend his life with, had been laid out bare.

Twelve months that would surely lead into the many more promised to come.

* * *

_._

_Here you go wonderful people. I think the standards of this fic will suffice. Hope you enjoyed. Thanks._


End file.
